close quietly
by Verity
Summary: In the aftermath of the explosion at the pool, Sherlock sleeps irregularly and John reads Dan Brown novels. Something is wrong here, John thinks. An exploration of post-traumatic stress and nocturnal habits. NOW COMPLETE
1. part 1

**thanks:** to **angearia** and **quinara**, the WORLD'S MOST PATIENT BETAS, who have spent many an hour poking at this story and making it not suck. They are amazing. Any errors herein are my own. Thanks also to **automaticdoor** (my dear Hotson) and **bobthemole** for providing insta-feedback when I was all nervous. You're all wonderful. 

_I__am__like__a__flag__surrounded__by__vast,__open__space.  
>I<em>_sense__the__coming__winds__and__must__live__through__them,  
>while<em>_all__other__things__among__themselves__do__not__yet__move:  
>The<em>_doors__close__quietly,__and__in__the__chimneys__is__silence;  
>The<em>_windows__do__not__yet__tremble,__and__the__dust__is__still__heavy__and__dark._

_I__already__know__the__storms,__and__I'm__as__restless__as__the__sea.  
>I<em>_roll__out__in__waves__and__fall__back__upon__myself,  
>and<em>_throw__myself__off__into__the__air__and__am__completely__alone  
>in<em>_the__immense__storm._

- Rainer Maria Rilke, "Premonition"

MAY  
>"You're worse than Mycroft," John says as he attempts to juggle bags, cane, and doorknob.<p>

Sherlock, still gazing fixedly at the ceiling, feigns nonchalance. "I feel very special."

"I'm sure you do." John is disturbed that he can tell Sherlock is feigning anything. He's also losing patience with Sherlock's pale attempts to look like he's been lying in state the entire afternoon instead of tailing John in a fairly conspicuous manner.

Having balanced the cane against the door jamb, John manages to carry the shopping into the kitchen and get the perishables put away. Mrs. Hudson did away with the head while they were in hospital and there's almost enough room to fit everything comfortably alongside the inedible contents of the fridge. Briefly, John savors the novelty. Then his body reminds him of its existence and he sits down, somewhat hard, on the chair in the kitchen.

"What gave me away?" Sherlock's voice drifts in from the living room.

"Same as the last two times," John tells him, and adds mildly, "You could at least give me a hand with things on the way home."

The rest of the kitchen isn't doing as well as the fridge. Looking towards the sink, John can see that dishes are already starting to pile up, despite what felt like hours of dishwashing last night. There's just enough free room on the kitchen table for elbows, and maybe a saucer. John leans forward and rests his head in his hands.

When he was in Afghanistan, he'd lived for the promise of moments like these – putting away the shopping, doing the washing up, settling down in some place that wasn't dirt and sun and combat. Two out of three, on the last – that's not bad. But as it's turned out, John Watson settles poorly. Four weeks on from Moriarty and the pool, he's getting restless again.

Sherlock is, of course, not helping. John gets up to check on him, and finds him turned in against the sofa, wrapped tightly in his wrinkled dressing gown. "Ribs hurting?" A nod. "Too cold?" Another nod. His forehead is warm and damp to the touch. "If you'd stay off your feet, you wouldn't feel so ill. I'm sure you'd be well to get back to your stalking in no time."

"It's not stalking. And I'm f—" A flurry of coughs interrupts him. John puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder tentatively; he leaves it there until the tension in his friend's shoulders subsides. Then he takes the afghan bunched up at the end of the sofa and pulls it over Sherlock.

There's nothing he can do to convince Sherlock they're safe, because they're not, and nothing he can do to convince Sherlock that he can protect himself, apparently. Still, the world goes on around them. There is shopping to be done, an evening with Sarah here and there, and soon he'll be starting back with his part-time work at the clinic. Sherlock can't follow him everywhere.

"You have pneumonia," John reminds him. "And three broken ribs. While I realize this is a foreign concept, you're supposed to be _resting_."

"I'm _bored_," Sherlock's voice rumbles from beneath the afghan.

John looks at him and smiles sadly. "No. You're not."

Sherlock spends most of his recovery on the sofa, obsessively watching the news and combing through foreign newspapers. He condescends to speak to Mycroft on the phone at one point, but refuses to see anyone but John and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade manages one half-hearted drugs bust, with little to show for it; Sherlock won't take any cases. It sets John on edge. The tremor in his hand returns.

He thinks about setting an appointment with his therapist every now and then, but those moments pass before he can summon the energy to do anything. Everything has begun to slip into mind numbing routine.

One night, John looks over from his chair to see Sherlock illuminated in the blue glow of the television, sound asleep. Not even the shrill young man serenading them on X Factor disturbs him. In the months they've lived together, John's only seen Sherlock asleep a handful of times, most of them the product of involuntary collapse after the culmination of a case. Sherlock's face is softer in sleep, his eyelashes long and dark against pale cheeks. He's drooling slightly on the Union Jack.

John's not sure what this means – Sherlock sleeping, himself watching. After a while, he turns off the telly, and he resettles the afghan over Sherlock's shoulders. It isn't enough, but it's what he can do.

He makes his way upstairs in the dark.

JUNE  
>After his flirtation with death, Sarah abruptly decides it's time to take their relationship to the next level. Every time John enters her flat, it's like moving from restless slumber into a delicious sensory delirium. Nothing smells like sulphur, the refrigerator is full of milk that's not gone off, and the loo paper is soft and plentiful. And then there's Sarah, whose scent and flavor and feel are delicious and singular. In the morning, they talk about work and other inconsequential things over breakfast, and he re-enters the world with a profound sense of wellbeing that lasts at least until he gets to the clinic.<p>

He's not in love with Sarah, but he does love many things about her: her calm certainty, her quick laugh, running his fingers through her long red hair. Sometimes he plaits it clumsily, like he used to do for Harry before she got old enough to do for herself. Sarah leaves it that way a while to humor him, but always brushes her hair out and pulls it back neatly after she dresses. He loves that about her, too.

The first time it happens, he shrugs it off; he's getting older, and Sarah enjoys herself, and that's what's important, after all. But it happens again, and again, and soon he finds that he can't even get off by himself; every time he gets close, the world feels like it's closing in, and—

"Look," Sarah says, the last time, after he crawls back up her body to lie beside her. "I like what you do for me. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't need—"

It's dark (Sarah likes it dark) and John can't see her. Her cheek is dry, though, when he cups her face in his hand; that's good. He kisses her.

She pulls away. "Tell me what it's— Did _he_—"

"No, no," he tells her, because somehow they both know exactly whom and what she's talking about. "I just— I can't lose control. It gets overwhelming. I can't even—"

Sarah rolls away from him, in towards the wall, and his hand trails across her collarbone and the curve of her breast. He moves closer to her, holds her; his mouth almost touches the back of her neck. "It's fine, John," she says after a while. "I know."

"You do?"

"I do."

Working with Sherlock has taught John that everyone has secrets. It's taught him a lot of things he doesn't want to know.

JULY  
>Sherlock went back to work weeks ago, and by now the novelty has worn off even for Lestrade. He looks wary when John ducks under his umbrella outside the crime scene, carrying a damp shopping bag. "Lunch? How kind of you."<p>

It's past one in the morning. "_Evidence_," John replies. Sherlock's been digging in the skip round the back. "It's some kind of trading card game, there's a whole box of them."

Lestrade has opened the bag. "But what would a woman in her sixties be doing with Yu-Gi-Oh! cards?" He catches John's eye and sighs. "I have a son, all right. Don't _you_ start in on me. What does Sherlock expect me to do with these?"

John lifts his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Haven't the foggiest."

It's a long night for both of them. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to be having an excellent time.

On the Friday after the case is closed, John realizes that Sherlock's moved back onto the sofa. He comes home early in the afternoon with the newest Dan Brown novel to find Sherlock lying on his stomach, head on the cushion, pale bare feet dangling over the side. He's been wearing the same dressing gown for days, although the pajamas do seem to rotate out. The afghan – its burnt orange and chartreuse stripes are unmistakeable – has also taken up residence: it's draped haphazardly across Sherlock's back like he's forgotten it's there.

John drops the book in his chair before he goes into the kitchen to fill up the kettle. Before he's set foot over the threshold, Sherlock is already winding himself up.

"Pointless, inaccurate drivel—"

"Sarah likes them," John answers, getting out a mug. Sherlock's entirely right about the books, but half the fun is Sherlock's indignation. He wonders if he should rent the film they made; it would probably give Sherlock an aneurysm.

"_Sarah_," says Sherlock, with the tone he usually reserves for his archenemy. "If you rent that DVD, I will find experimental use for your new trainers."

"That's not a very good threat." He plugs in the kettle. "I've had to replace them twice over. You're slipping."

Sherlock doesn't respond, which is disappointing. When John returns to the living room, he finds that Sherlock has drifted off despite the bright sunlight streaming into the room. He's lying on his stomach, which must still pain him a little, but he looks more relaxed than John has seen him in months. It's only then that John starts to do some deduction of his own. The abandoned tea cup on the floor, empty box of nicotine patches below the sofa, a monograph on blood coagulation: none of these things are _unusual_ for Sherlock, but John tidied up and ferreted the trash out from under all the furniture and in between the police reports earlier this week. Most significant is the presence of the afghan — John hasn't seen the afghan in months.

Suspicious, he thinks, as he nibbles on a chocolate digestive and turns his attention to the first chapter of _The__Lost__Symbol_. Exposure to Sherlock has dampened his enjoyment of mystery novels somewhat, but this one is still engrossing.

Around page 39, Sherlock mutters something and turns over; the afghan falls to the floor.

Around page 58, John looks up again, his eyes catching on the pale slice of skin where Sherlock's t-shirt's ridden up. He goes back to his book hastily once he realizes he's staring. But after he catches himself doing it for the third time, he sets the book down, using the receipt to hold his place, and retrieves the afghan. Sherlock's eyelids flutter as John settles it over him, but he doesn't stir.

John is midway through the book and night is falling when Lestrade shows up at their door. And then the game is on again.

AUGUST  
>"Nice try," says Harry, looking at <em>The<em>_Essential__Dykes__to__Watch__Out__For_. "You know, we don't all shop at the lesbian bookstore these days. I even read a Cormac McCarthy novel once."

"Buck up, or it's Barbara Cartland for you next time," John retorts, unruffled.

His sister wrinkles her nose. She looks tired. They're the only ones in the lounge just now; it's big and making an effort not to look institutional. This isn't Harry's first time in rehab, but John thinks she's really trying to make a go of it this time – doing it for herself, and not for Clara. He doesn't think Clara even knows she's here.

Reflexively, his hand goes to the pocket where he keeps his phone, and Harry's eyes flicker with amusement. "I thought you turned that thing off."

"I did. Sherlock can live without me for an hour." The first day he'd put his mobile on vibrate. That was a mistake. Sherlock seems perturbed by the fact that there's any time of John's day during which he is unassailable.

"I bet he's texted you twenty times. Five quid."

John rolls his eyes. "Harry."

"And how is Sarah?" She winks.

At this, he tenses up. "She's fine. Just fine."

"Oooh, trouble in paradise," Harry murmurs, but then her tone changes. "Really? I'm sorry, John. I'm just–"

"No, it's fine." It wasn't. Actually. "Anyway, I've got to go, I'm sorry. Time's up, you know, and–"

Harry is smirking again, and he realizes that his hand's back at his pocket. "Go on, you. See you Thursday."

He squeezes her hand on the way out. When Sherlock's not skulking in his normal place outside the clinic, he checks his messages and finds a string of them culminating with Sherlock in hospital.

"Should have let your phone ring," he crows when John arrives at the A&E. The wound's not serious, but it's a painful one: the knife slipped up under Sherlock's arm and narrowly avoided causing nerve damage. He'll have a nasty scar, and won't be able to move his arm properly until the stitches come out.

John rubs his face. "Can we save the triumphant chastisement for later?"

"Hardly triumphant. McPhee is still at large." Sherlock looks surprisingly cheerful for someone who's recently been stabbed. "Text Lestrade for me, will you?"

"You just texted me twenty-six times."

"Only eight after the stabbing and five since I arrived here. It's extremely tedious with only one hand."

John sighs and holds his hand out for the phone.

He still turns the ringer off on Thursday. There are some battles Sherlock will never win.

The night after they catch McPhee in the act, John has one of the dreams; he hasn't had one in a while, not since Sherlock was back on his feet and dragging them around London at all hours in fear for their lives. It takes a while for his heart and lungs to slow after he startles awake.

He's known all along that this wasn't a panacea, the excitement, that even with his life in motion things would follow him around, catch up with him someday. But that hadn't stopped him from _hoping_. Someday, he thinks, he may dream of the pool, and not Palmer's face as he slipped away, or Thomas's eyes lying open and unseeing, already beginning to coat with the drifting sands. But it's too fresh. He can't touch it.

Briefly, John wonders what Sherlock dreams of. If he dreams.

SEPTEMBER  
>"The light in your room is much better," Sherlock says calmly the first time John finds him sprawled out over his bed with crime scene photos. It's not the first time Sherlock has come into his room, but John made it clear very early on that severed limbs stopped at the threshold, which Sherlock, surprisingly, has respected. To be fair, there are no actual body parts in his room now. Just photos.<p>

"I have to sleep in here," John points out.

"Not right now." Somehow, Sherlock always manages to sound reasonable, when he's crossing unwritten boundaries in some new and awful way. "You are, in fact, diverging from your usual post-work routine of a chocolate digestive, a cup of tea, and some poorly written popular novel invariably recommended or lent to you by Sarah—"

"I don't have a routine." He can't remember the last time he was actually able to sit down after work with tea and one of Sarah's books. Maybe the last Harry Potter. He recalls it fondly. "And Sarah is not exactly inclined toward lending me books at the moment, in case you've not written that one to your hard drive."

Sherlock goes back to looking at the photos without comment.

"No more crime scene photos in there," John calls over his shoulder as he heads downstairs to plug in the kettle. "I mean it, Sherlock. Find something less gory."

There's no reply, but he wasn't expecting one.

The first night John finds Sherlock asleep on his bed, Sherlock looks like a man who has tried very hard not to fall asleep. His head is pillowed on the chemistry textbook at an awkward angle, and one of his arms is hanging off the side in a manner that suggests an uncomfortable loss of circulation. John stands in the doorway for a while and considers his options. This has gone a little too far. Sherlock can't sleep on every surface in the flat. He has a bedroom, at least in theory.

John makes his way carefully down the stairs, and pauses in front of the door in the hall. He's never seen Sherlock's bedroom, not even the door open, in the seven months they've lived together, and he half expects the door to be booby-trapped. But the door swings inward at a touch.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this.

Every inch of the walls, the ceiling, and some of the furniture is tacked with papers and photos and evidence bags, sometimes sloppily and sometimes with careful precision. Lines of string connect many of the papers, but not all; most are covered in furious yellow highlighting and post-it notes. Even the windows have been papered over. John doesn't need to look to know what they are, though. It's Moriarty.

John has managed to put it out of his mind, mostly. If Sherlock wasn't going to bring it up, neither was he. Of course, it would have been very unlike Sherlock to let something like this go. But John had hoped. He had wanted Moriarty to disappear into thin air. Maybe with a wave of Mycroft's umbrella or not-Anthea's magic fingers. But he is out there. The most recent clipping is two days old.

Back in John's bedroom, Sherlock is still asleep. He starts awake when John lifts his arm back onto the bed. "Shh. It's all right."

Sherlock stares at John as he takes away the chemistry textbook. "John?" He sounds unsettled and alert.

"Go back to sleep." John takes off Sherlock's shoes as well. It's still his bed.

"Are you sure?"

John pauses in the doorway. "I'm sure."

The sofa is more comfortable than he expected. It is strange to be the one wrapped up in the afghan. It smells like Sherlock.

The next morning, he wakes up to find Sherlock poring over crime scene photos at the desk as though nothing's happened. Maybe nothing has.

John tries hard not to look at the door to Sherlock's bedroom, but he knows he's not fooling either of them.

OCTOBER  
>Autumn has long been John's favorite time of year, and this is his first back home in several years. "Time to bring out the scarves again," he says contentedly one morning over his Weetabix, which Sherlock acknowledges only with a blank stare.<p>

It's also John's birthday, the first week of October. His sister takes him out to lunch, and gives him this year's aran. "Perfect," he declares, squishing the wool between forefinger and thumb: it's springy and scratchy, just waiting for him to wear it in.

"You are so predictable," Harry says, stirring her iced tea with its long spoon. "Someday I'm going to get you mittens. Just to shake things up."

"Shut it," he replies affectionately. "Anyway, I understand we've got another thing to toast."

"Sixty days," she acknowledges. They clink glasses just as the waiter arrives with Harry's salad.

The conversation drifts toward less consequential things, like Harry's new client who wants some kind of improbably cantilevered balcony that goes against every London building code. When John gets up to leave, she squeezes his hand. Then she grins. "A full hour and no texts? Must be someone's birthday."

When he arrives home, Mrs. Hudson gives him his own afghan. It's puce and fuchsia and looks rather vile, but John thanks her profusely anyway. He folds it neatly across the end of his bed .

He doesn't expect Sherlock to remember his birthday, or acknowledge it, but at the end of the day, he finds the most recent Michael Crichton novel tucked under his pillow.

John clambers down the stairs and waves the book in Sherlock's face. "You _hate_ these. You think they're absolute rubbish."

Sherlock regards him with some exasperation; the book has come between Sherlock and what looks like an ear in an advanced state of decay. "They are."

"But—"

"Tweezers?"

John sighs, defeated. "Where are they?"

"Back of the cupboard next to the fridge."

It takes him five minutes to find them hiding behind a large bottle of what appears to be power-steering fluid.

"Excellent," says Sherlock. "Also, we're out of milk."

Sarah gives him the same Michael Crichton novel the next day as a conciliatory gesture, and Sherlock's plan becomes clear. Nevertheless, it's a good day at the office and John comes home early to find there's a case, though an absurdly simple one: they solve it by the end of the night. He hasn't tried for a while, but he attempts a quick wank in the shower while he's washing off the river sludge. So close and then— he finds himself sitting in the shower tray attempting to breathe. He is in the shower. He is safe in the flat, or as safe as he can be with Moriarty still abroad. He can barely feel the water pelting his skin.

After a while, Sherlock shouts through the bathroom door. "You've used up the hot water."

John shakes his head, realizes the water's indeed gone cold and he's shivering. "Sorry," he says, and he knows his voice isn't steady but it's the best he can do. Sherlock doesn't press him.

As a doctor, he knows this happens to a lot of people. And when it had first— after he'd come back from Afghanistan— he'd talked to Emma, and she'd said it was normal. Like the tremor, it had gone away very quickly after he took up residence in 221B. He felt alive. He felt real. He was in control of things again.

He's not in control anymore.

"John?"

He startles awake to find Sherlock whispering his name softly. "Sherlock?" he asks in turn, but Sherlock doesn't answer, just lies down beside him. The bed is very small, and John has to scoot over to make room. "What– why? What's going on?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. John wonders if he's dreaming, but when he reaches over and pokes Sherlock, his flatmate is disconcertingly solid and twitches under the assault. "Stop it," he says at last. "You're not dreaming. Go back to sleep."

"All right then," John grumbles. He should probably be objecting, but he's too tired and his main source of irritation is being pressed against the sloping attic wall. They lie there, back to back, and John drops off to sleep before he hears Sherlock's breathing slow. When he wakes up, there's bright sunlight streaming across the bed, and Sherlock is downstairs; John can hear him rummaging around below him in the other bedroom.

It's Sunday and John doesn't have to work. He closes his eyes and sleeps dreamlessly for another hour.


	2. part 2

**thanks:** to **angearia** and **quinara**, the WORLD'S MOST PATIENT BETAS, who have spent many an hour poking at this story and making it not suck. They are amazing. Any errors herein are my own. Gabriel was also a great help in beta-reading this particular draft in the eleventh hour. (WTF, UNITED KINGDOM, HOW DO YOU NOT HAVE FAUCETS.)

NOVEMBER  
>"Morning," John says, setting a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, who has commandeered John's laptop once again.<p>

Sherlock hands him the paper without looking up. "Sports section, Gareth Bale, the paragraph I've circled. Your opinion."

It doesn't take him very long to figure out what Sherlock wants him to see. "I don't think these are coded messages, Sherlock. A bit much." John sits down with his own cup and flips to the front page: _IS__THE__HUMAN__RIGHTS__ACT__DEFRAUDING__THE__COUNTRYSIDE?_ Oh, it's the _Daily__Mail_.

"_Lestrade_ certainly seems to think they are."

"I think Lestrade is having you on."

Sherlock snatches the paper back. He ignores his tea for half an hour, then he complains that it's gone cold.

Sherlock doesn't even bother to pretend to sleep downstairs anymore. He leaves his afghan in John's room and wraps himself up in it every night before he gets under the covers. John keeps meaning to talk about it and mysteriously forgetting, much like he keeps meaning to bring up the Moriarty case file that's taken over Sherlock's room. He's not deluded enough to think this actually counts as "forgetting." Each night, John ends up snugged against the wall under the eaves, his back turned to Sherlock and the world at large. They haven't had a case for a while, and Sherlock seems to have started sleeping more. He's always awake before John, but sometimes he leaves the room scant minutes before John's alarm clock goes off and John drags himself out of bed. John is still bothering to pretend he doesn't notice.

It seems like a long time since he first saw Sherlock sleep, since the first time he tucked Sherlock in anywhere. At the time, John thought it was just the lengthy recovery from broken ribs and the resulting pneumonia that kept Sherlock exhausted and immobilized, but now he's not sure. It is strange to think that he is something from which Sherlock can draw comfort. Or maybe, he thinks, someone who can make Sherlock feel safe.

One day, John comes home as the sun is setting to find Sherlock already in his room, the curtains drawn. John's not tired, but he lies down next to Sherlock anyway. The soft ebb and flow of Sherlock's breath begins to lull him to sleep, and John finds his eyes closing. At least he's taken off his shoes.

He awakens hours later to Sherlock making a strange whimpering noise. John sits up in the darkness and fumbles for the lamp, but before his hand can find purchase, Sherlock has turned over to wrap his arms around John's waist, burying his nose somewhere in John's right hip. He still hasn't woken up.

John lifts a hand to rest in Sherlock's hair, and his friend seems to calm. John has touched Sherlock's hair briefly before: picking leaves or debris out after a case, pushing a few strands back to lay a hand against Sherlock's damp forehead when he was ill. But he's still surprised by how soft it is when he pushes his hand through the curls.

After a few minutes, Sherlock goes very still, but John continues to stroke his hair and he doesn't pull away. "I woke you," Sherlock murmurs, eventually.

"Yes," John agrees with him. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he can see Sherlock's face in the dim glow of the streetlight that escapes from the gap between curtain and casement. Sherlock's eyes are closed. "It's fine," he adds.

"Still?"

"Still."

John wakes up in the morning to find Sherlock still asleep, curled around and on top of him like a cat. Much like a cat, he has managed to perfectly distribute his weight in a way that is making John's morning trip to the loo loom urgently. Typical, John thinks as he attempts to extricate himself from the bed without waking Sherlock.

That night, he makes Sherlock take him into his bedroom and explain what's on the walls.

DECEMBER  
>"Not expecting me?" asks the man who's cornered him in the alley, with a wicked leer.<p>

John sighs. He didn't fight the chip and pin machine for this. For that matter, he didn't fight for Queen and Country in Afghanistan for this. At least he'd put the biscuits on Sherlock's card. He drops his bags and pulls off his gloves.

Five minutes later, Sherlock finds Moriarty's henchman slumped over a nearby rubbish bin and John gazing sadly at the remains of the carton of milk. "I shouldn't have worried," Sherlock observes. "Of course you could handle him on your own."

"I really don't appreciate you timing my shopping trips," John snaps, and before he consciously registers it, he has Sherlock pinned against the opposite wall. Sherlock doesn't struggle, just lets John hold him there, one shoulder pushing into Sherlock's, arm curved around his neck, other hand pushing Sherlock's hip back. After a moment, John inhales deeply and steps back. He wipes his hands on his pants before slipping the gloves back on.

The walk back to the flat is silent, but Sherlock carries the remains of the shopping.

When the door is locked behind them, John retreats to the kitchen. He fills up the kettle and listens to the sounds of the flat around him: the water running from the tap, and, more faintly, the scuff of Sherlock's shoes on the carpet, the weight of his coat coming to rest on its hook. Sherlock's been thinking about all of this for months, endlessly running through all the possibilities and dangers in his mind, but John's been too wound up in the details to see the big picture. He's a doctor, he likes things he can fix, things he can understand; Sherlock's world is the other half of the same parabola, running forever outward from the specific into the unknown and ungraphable.

Harry comes to Baker Street on Christmas Eve. "There was a drugs bust just last week," John reassures her when he lets her in. She laughs, but he's serious.

"It's Aunt Peg I'd worry about," Harry says as she hands him her jacket and something that smells suspiciously like fruitcake. "As long as your flatmate's not going to interrogate me about my marital status or start asking me when I'm popping out the grandchildren, I'm not going to require any social lubrication." She flops dramatically onto the couch in a disturbingly Sherlockian fashion. "I keep pointing out that Mum and Dad are dead, which you'd think would derail that line of questioning, but no."

Sherlock has gone to spend time with Mycroft and _their_ Mum ("Against my will," he assured John earlier), so they while away the evening playing cards until the midnight service. Neither John nor Harry is a regular churchgoer, but old habits linger.

"I don't know how you do it," John says miserably as his sister begins to deal out the cards for their fourth round of Go Fish. "Every time. Every time."

"She's skilled at pattern recognition," Sherlock says, having let himself in unnoticed. He and Harry exchange friendly glares.

"You want in?" Harry asks.

"If you must."

John sighs and leans back in his chair while Harry continues her reign as Fish Queen. It's nice, he thinks, to see someone who can give Sherlock a real challenge.

Harry doesn't fall asleep on the sofa until the wee hours of Christmas morning. When John goes upstairs, he finds that Sherlock's waited up; the bedside lamp is on and he's engrossed in exploring an iPad, which even John can deduce to be this year's gift from Mummy. John pulls on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and turns out the light without eliciting any response. He wakes sometime later to find Sherlock's face still washed in the soft blue light from the screen.

"Good Christmas?" John asks sleepily.

"I am simply testing the battery."

"Mmmm."

John is just awake enough to be slightly perturbed by how normal everything feels: like all Christmases ought to have Sherlock and Harry going at it over cards and the hymns he's sung since he was a boy and old flannel pajamas and Sherlock's long feet stealing warmth from his own under the covers. Sherlock's hand ghosts over his hair and John leans into it. He turns toward Sherlock as he drifts off to sleep once more.

John gives Harry a boxed set of those Stieg Larsson novels and Sherlock a scarf (he's not very inventive when it comes to presents). Harry gives him a new coat, a nice one. Sherlock gives him a new mobile.

"You are _so_ married," his sister tells him as they start in on the breakfast dishes; Sherlock's gone out somewhere, waving his hand and talking vaguely about curry. "It might be adorable if you'd stop being so obnoxiously closeted about it."

"Harry, could you just _stop_—" John cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "It's Christmas. Not here? Not right now?"

Harry sets down the towel she's been using to dry the dishes and crosses her arms. "Please. You're not even trying to pretend you don't sleep with him. You invited me to have Christmas with you. Do you want me to give you some kind of magical gay sister blessing? Is that it?"

John hands her a clean bowl; he doesn't have a response ready. Trying to pretend he and Sherlock hadn't slept in the same bed for months would have involved verbally acknowledging that, after all.

"Being happy is nothing to be ashamed about," Harry mutters. She sounds hurt. "That's all I'm saying. Christ, John, I–"

John turns off the tap and dries his hands on the discarded dishtowel. He stares at the cabinets, at the grain of the wood. "I had all these ideas," he says, slowly, "before I came back, about what things would be like. I'll never be a surgeon again. Sherlock understands."

"You complete arse," Harry says, after a moment. "Do you think I don't know all that?"

Later, preparing to head out to her own flat, Harry sits down on the couch to lace her boots. John's attention has been fully diverted by Sherlock, who is waving his hands about and extolling the sins of Tesco.

"John," Harry interrupts, "Whose present's still under the tree?"

JANUARY  
>When John comes home from work, he finds his gun on the coffee table, and Sherlock perched on the edge of the couch, staring intently at it, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The magazine's out, but John can't tell from where he's standing whether it's full or empty.<p>

"Sherlock," he says slowly, trying not to startle him. "What are you doing?"

"This needs to be cleaned regularly."

"…you're not cleaning it."

"No." Sherlock pauses and sits back. "SIG Sauer P226," he recites dispassionately.

"You're also not _playing_ with it. Give me that, Sherlock." Sherlock starts to pick it up by the grip and John hastily backpedals. "No, no. Just leave it there. Don't touch it. Christ."

"What?" Sherlock looks up at him, frustrated.

How nice it would be, to just shoot at walls and do anything he wanted when he was mad, John thinks. Carefully, he picks up the gun and the magazine. "You don't know how to handle a gun safely, and you can't have this one, all right? So stop pinching it."

"I saved our lives with it. You can teach me."

"No," John says, measuring his words, "because you are a bloody moron. This is what _he_ wants. Don't you see? No, no, you don't, of course, I don't know why I bother."

He hides the gun in the bathroom. Sherlock always finds it, so John's really only doing it to make a point. But he tucks the gun securely behind the cleaning supplies anyway.

Since the bomb-that-turned-out-to-be-swimming-goggles, Sherlock's become newly obsessed with securing the 221 Baker Street – not just their own flat, but Mrs. Hudson's and the basement one as well. The whole thing begins well enough with normal things like locks and curtains and dowels to jam into the windows to keep them shut, but rapidly descends into tripwires and elaborate booby traps that should make John a little more concerned for his own life than he actually is. John seriously injures two more thugs on the way home from the grocery store. Sherlock accepts and opens the post with gloved hands.

John starts staying in more. It makes Sherlock feel better, he can tell. It unsettles John. He's not used to being so hemmed in. They eat a lot of Chinese until John starts reading cooking blogs to fill the spare time.

The first casualty of the new security measures is, of course, Sherlock. John maneuvers Sherlock onto the couch and gets the frozen peas he saves for this purpose out of the refrigerator and secures them around Sherlock's ankle with a dishtowel.

"They're _cold_," Sherlock complains, as if the peas have suddenly grown more icy and offensive than the last time John treated him for a minor injury.

"That they are," John agrees. He holds the dishtowel in place.

After a minute or two, Sherlock slumps against the back of the couch, eyes closed, protestations forgotten. John is kneeling on the floor, looking up at him, and suddenly very conscious of his other hand, the one that's been casually braced against Sherlock's knee the whole time. Outside of bed, they rarely touch each other, and that seems to John, now, very strange.

His hands are still full of Sherlock's knee and peas, and John realizes that he _likes_ touching Sherlock.

Oh.

"It's taken you that long?" asks Sherlock, who's apparently been psychically following John's internal monologue this whole time.

"You always forget about the peas," he says stupidly.

When John helps Sherlock up the stairs later, he's hyperaware of all of the places that they touch: his arm around Sherlock's narrow waist, Sherlock's draped over his back and gripping his bad shoulder. Their thighs press together.

John spends a lot of time staring at the wall that night.

FEBRUARY  
>Maybe it wouldn't be so confusing if they weren't in constant medium-grade fear for their lives, or having to rely on possession of illegal weapons to elude death on a weekly basis, or if John hadn't previously been fairly secure in his opposite-sex-only orientation, or if he'd at least been able to have a good wank now and then, but John finds himself doubting that. It's Sherlock, he'd find ways to be confusing while naked on a desert island with Brooke Shields in the very alarming version of <em>The<em>_Blue__Lagoon_ that John's mind has just conjured from the ether.

Sherlock claims to be receiving mysterious messages from Moriarty through the Bedsits & Rooms ads on Loot, which has sent them on a few exciting late-night chases through dodgy neighborhoods but mostly led to John suffering through awkward interviews with "prospective housemates." Occasionally, cases disrupt the monotony.

Lestrade and Donovan are leaning against one of the police cruisers; they've been at the crime scene for six hours now and the forensics team still hasn't finished. Sherlock has wandered off to comb through the grass in the back garden, even though it's ten in the evening and he's only armed with a weak torch.

"Freak's looking for a needle in a haystack," Donovan mutters, almost fondly. "How he expects to find—"

At that moment, Sherlock comes bounding toward them, beaming with excitement. "In the east hedge," he crows, holding his prize aloft.

"Sod off," chirps the parakeet. It looks at Sherlock with something akin to affection.

"Very charming, the owners," says John dryly. "Now, can we go home? Or does the parakeet have something else important to share with us?"

Then Sherlock explains it all – the faked murder-suicide, the drug smuggling ring, the parakeet's South American origins. Even Donovan briefly looks impressed.

John shakes his head. "Brilliant."

Then there is the morning that everything _works_ again, finally. John spends the entire day at work avoiding Sarah and trying to look dour, because he has a feeling that she'll be able to read "stalked by nemesis, wanked off to fantasies about flatmate in our shower, it was amazing" right off his face. He should probably be appropriately horrified himself, but he's not. Not at all, actually.

When he gets back to the flat, he can hear Sherlock playing the violin. John goes right upstairs: he doesn't think he can look Sherlock in the eyes.

As he skims out of his trousers, John thinks about this morning, and the shower. He's opened a Pandora's box, or maybe just tipped the lid off one that was unsteadily shut already. Now that he's let himself think about Sherlock that way, he'll never be able to stop. He's not sure how he can keep pretending, with Sherlock next to him every night, and _really,_ what was he thinking there?

"You weren't thinking," says Sherlock, who is not reading his mind now, probably, because everything, all of it, is so obvious, and John must admit to himself that he did not know because he did not want to know. About any of it - Sherlock, Moriarty, and this, the two of them, because, yes, it is a thing. A Thing.

"True," he answers, and he starts to unbutton his shirt. "Doing, though, I'm good at that."

"Let me," Sherlock says. John takes his hands away and lets Sherlock at the buttons. Sherlock's hands are unsteady, and John covers them with his own.

"You don't have to— We don't have to—"

Sherlock kisses him expertly, the way he does everything else. His lips are warm and soft, and it takes John a moment to catch up and kiss back. He feels nervous, standing there barefoot in his pants and undershirt while Sherlock hovers over him, but he can tell that Sherlock is even more so: he is hovering, after all. How can Sherlock still be nervous? John wonders.

Later, he figures it out.

Then there is the night that everything falls apart. It's just a few days later.

John falls into a skip from a fire escape three flights up. Which isn't as horrible as it could be, really, his fall was mostly cushioned, and something might be stabbing into his left calf now, he's not sure. He hasn't planned on dying in a skip, but he hasn't planned on dying anywhere at all in a long time (desert? hotel room? no, desert), so that's all right. Same shoulder, very clever, maybe that was on purpose. Clean wound, though, no bullet to dig out. His hand is pressed over the wound, like that will hold it in, blood, his life, something.

He wishes Sherlock were here.


	3. part 3

**All****my****thanks****to:** Rebecca, who made France happen; my Hotson and **bobthemole** for being my cheerleaders while I flailed about this story for months; **tiferet**, who confirmed that the sex scene was hot; my incredible beta readers, **angearia** & **quinara**, who have shepherded me through many drafts and emails, always pushing me to go deeper into the story and tell it better than I ever would have on my own. You ladies are amazing.

_Conventional__opinion__is__the__ruin__of__our__souls,  
>something<em>_borrowed__which__we__mistake__as__our__own.  
>Ignorance<em>_is__better__than__this;__clutch__at__madness__instead.  
>Always<em>_run__from__what__seems__to__benefit__your__self:  
>sip<em>_the__poison__and__spill__the__water__of__life.  
>Revile<em>_those__who__flatter__you;  
>lend<em>_both__interest__and__principle__to__the__poor.  
>Let<em>_security__go__and__be__at__home__amidst__dangers.  
>Leave<em>_your__good__name__behind__and__accept__disgrace.  
>I<em>_have__lived__with__cautious__thinking;  
>now<em>_I'll__make__myself__mad._

Rumi, Mathnawi II: 2327-2332  
>Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski<p>

MARCH  
>Mycroft brings him another gun.<p>

Same model, but new, clean, neatly oiled. It feels different in his hand, but then again, shouldn't it?

John checks the safety, then sits it down on the tray cantilevered over the hospital bed. He meets Mycroft's eyes calmly.

"Queen and Country," Mycroft states. He's seated in the sole chair in the room, on the other side of the bed; the room has no windows. His fingers twitch, just a little, where they rest on the handle of his umbrella. "You dedicated twelve years of your life to their service, Doctor Watson. Very noble, one might say."

"Might, yeah," John answers him. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he folds them primly on his lap.

Mycroft drums his fingers against the wood beneath them. The soft sound carries in the still room.

The year he's spent with Sherlock has honed John's observational skills, but John's never been stupid. He doesn't need the subtle cues of Mycroft's body language, the layout of the hospital room, or the manufacture date of the firearm in front of him to know what's going on.

"'Minor role in the British government,'" he says. "Does Whitehall know you're here now? This isn't about the Queen, and you're asking the wrong questions if you want to know if I'm the man for your job."

"I'm not asking any questions."

John inclines his head. "True." His hand steals out of his lap again, to touch the cool metal of the gun; his fingers hesitate on the textured plastic of the tray. "If Sherlock wanted me to come with him, he would have stayed. I'm not his minder. I'm just—" He falls silent.

"Precisely," Sherlock's brother concludes.

Mycroft gives him a car, several passports, and an iPhone. John hates it immediately and never does get the hang of the keyboard. He spends four days in hospital in total, and another week at home trying to brush up on his GSCE French.

The whole thing seems hopeless most of the time. He almost bled to death and had a six-inch long shard of glass pried out of his leg scant days ago, he's still doped up on painkillers, and Sherlock is off on some kind of revenge mission, possibly having a psychotic break, with a gun. Oh, Sherlock has probably logically calculated it all: when confronted with the unknown, his first refuge is in data: times, dates, erased marks on chalkboards. If John goes to the evidence, he reasons, he might be able to track Sherlock in the end.

The first day he's back home, he lies on the sofa and stares at the ceiling, too exhausted to move or work himself up to entering Sherlock's room. The second day, he stops half a dozen times in the hallway and hesitates on the threshold before the pain in his leg forces him to retreat. When he wakes up at four the next morning, he stumbles downstairs before the adrenaline wears off and throws open the door.

He'd been afraid that Sherlock might have cleared the room, taken everything away or destroyed it, but the walls appear as they did a week before. The only things Sherlock appears to have brought away with him are a change of clothes, his laptop, and John's gun. John finds Sherlock's phone abandoned in the dusty rumpled sheets. He sits down on the bed for a while and gives his leg a rest.

A few times since he woke up in hospital to find a steady drip of blood running into his arm and an armed guard stationed outside his door, John has given in to the temptation to fantasize about a Sherlock who would have stayed all night beside him, folded himself origami-like into the chair by John's bed, made sure he was the first thing John saw on waking up. But Sherlock's not John, and John's not that much of a romantic, in any case. Long before he surfaced groggily from unconsciousness into that bland and windowless room, John knew that Sherlock was preparing to journey somewhere he wasn't meant to follow.

Over the next few days, John copies all the contacts off Sherlock's phone, photographs the evidence, and makes painstaking notes on everything he can remember from the past twelve months. He's sure he's missing the important bits anyway.

Sometimes, in the week before he leaves, he chambers a bullet, thumbs the safety off, and waits in his chair in the living room for a few minutes. Then he unloads the gun and puts it away like the reasonable man he's not.

John spends the first night away from home in a budget chain hotel in Rouen, as far south of Calais as he can make it that first evening. The building is close to the motorway, and the drone of the cars rushing past almost lulls him to sleep. His leg throbs, but he's too tired to do more than shift half-heartedly against the cotton-blend sheets. He hangs suspended in that dark stretch between sleeping and waking for a long time before, abruptly, the alarm on his phone chimes and he's jolted awake. At some point, he'd drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

His morning cuppa isn't included in the price of the room. In the lobby of the hotel, he fills the Styrofoam cup with hot water, tea bag, and half a sugar packet: it doesn't taste like home, and hardly tastes like tea.

According to the itinerary on his iPhone - John doesn't quite trust either - Bordeaux's doable in a day. Six hours, though that's probably pushing it for the average motorist, let alone one recovering from a serious injury. No matter. The trail's already a week cold and he's wasted enough time.

John heads south on a tip from Mycroft, based on the IP address of an anonymous comment on Sherlock's website. The drive is pleasant. There's some traffic congestion around Libourne, the countryside is picturesque when it's not obscured by sound barriers or new development, and John's not the one who's paying for the exorbitantly priced petrol. Driving on the right side of the road takes up the greater part of his attention. For long moments, he can forget about where he's going and why.

After a few hours, he turns on the radio to some pop chanteuse singing about Lou Reed being exciting. John isn't sure exactly what the song is about, but then again, he doesn't need to be.

It's comforting to find a puzzle he can leave well enough alone.

The IP address is registered to a cafe near the center of Cenon, a suburb. John spends the night in another tiny hotel by the motorway before he ventures into town. He sees the _WiFi__Gratuit_ sign in the window as the tram pulls up across the street, and sighs. Inside, he asks the woman frothing the milk for his cappuccino if anyone fitting Sherlock's description has been by, but she smiles and shakes her head.

John knew, setting out, how little chance he had of finding Sherlock here, or anywhere, really, but still - it's disheartening. He sits down by the front window and scoops the foam off his cappuccino. Light and fluffy, it threatens to slide off his spoon when his hand trembles. In his mouth, it warms and dissipates quickly, with just a hint of bitter coffee flavor.

There's an email from Mycroft waiting for him. He doesn't open it.

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine it's the latte he bought with Mike Stamford over a year ago that's ghosting across his tongue.

Next, a hotel in Lyon.

Next, an abandoned steel manufacturing plant, Liège.

Next, a partially modernized TB sanatorium, Piotta.

Sitting under a window, in the shadows, as a guard passes by the oldest and most derelict wing, John's leg aches. He should feel energized, but he just feels bored. What's going to happen to him if he's caught? He's not even a pawn, motoring across the continent in search of a phantom chessboard. He could be dead, or waiting for Mycroft to bail him out of Swiss jail, it makes no difference to Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_.

Bored or not, he still has the same reflexes. So he manages to turn around part of the way before the new arrival to the room pins him to the floor, the muzzle of his gun thrust bruisingly hard between John's shoulder blades.

He doesn't resist when long fingers cover his mouth and a low voice murmurs, "Don't cry out."

APRIL  
>There are many things John steeled himself to anticipate before he left London: Sherlock dead, wounded, strung out, mad, a wake of bodies in his trail, some horrific combination of the above. Sherlock holding him at gunpoint was not one of them.<p>

The slash of light coming in from the overhead window reveals peeling yellow paint and a string of numbers inscribed with a fresher brush: _13__13__13__13__1_, off into the darkness once more. Vandals, most likely, John thinks. It's a different room, further inside the building, where Sherlock had led him after taking his gun. Mycroft's gun. Sherlock's pointing one of them at him now, he's not sure which.

He's calm. His leg doesn't trouble him. His hand is perfectly still.

He has no trouble staring straight ahead into the darkness.

"Mycroft sent you," Sherlock says, voice level.

No point in denying it. "Yes."

"You wouldn't have come on your own."

Against the peeling wallpaper, John can see a sliver of Sherlock's cheek, the edge of his collar, the line of his coat sloping down into the shadows.

"No," he agrees.

Sherlock is quiet for a while, and John's heartbeat thrums in his ears. The room smells like mold and earth, the scent so pungent that it's hard to breathe. He inhales sharply, and the muzzle of the gun snaps up at his involuntary movement.

"You disapprove," Sherlock observes, clinically, coolly. "You think I should have stayed behind in London. You think I should have let Mycroft handle it. That I should have stayed out of it all together. That I can't control myself."

"Have you killed anyone?"

"Not yet."

John has to think. He needs a moment. He looks up, licks his lips, blinks beneath the flickering sodium glare from outside. "Sherlock," he says, finally. "You're wrong. Your theory, it's wrong." He steps forward, towards the gun that's rising out of the shadow. Sherlock doesn't resist him as he tilts the muzzle toward the floor, then tugs the gun away. The safety's still on.

"By all means, enlighten me." Sherlock tries to move further back, but he's brought up short by the wall.

John crowds him, he can't quite help it. "You shouldn't _have_ to control yourself, Sherlock. Just because you're the smartest man in the world doesn't mean you have to be the one to set it to rights. You don't have to make all the decisions."

"Second-smartest," Sherlock mutters as John leans against him, and he can feel Sherlock tense, then slowly relax, under his touch. They haven't seen each other in over a month, and it feels longer, like years have gone by. How long since they'd spent a day out of each other's sight? How long since they'd spent a night out of reach? John breathes into the curve of Sherlock's neck, in and out, each breath coming soft and warm back to him. His hands move beneath the coat, beneath the back of Sherlock's suit jacket, come to rest against the crumpled silk of Sherlock's shirt. He tilts back his head and Sherlock bends down and finally, finally, _yes_–

He can taste coffee on Sherlock's tongue.

They stumble into John's most recent economy hotel room. Sherlock presses John against the door as soon as John locks it behind them, kissing him thoroughly and with precision. John wants to slap him. Instead, he slips his hands under Sherlock's shirt, feels taut muscles and bone move beneath his hand. "You can't do this," John tells him. "Just– acting like nothing has happened."

"Why not?" Sherlock's breathing a little heavily, rubbing his thumb against that spot on the back of John's neck that makes John's knees weak. Cheating.

John pulls away, grasps Sherlock's shoulders, pushes him back more forcefully than intends. Or less, he's not sure. Sherlock stumbles back and trips over the bed, catching himself gracefully on his elbows as he sprawls backward. Then he looks up at John, doe-eyed, and John finally gets it. "That's rude," he says. "Very rude. I come all the way out here after you, and you—"

Sherlock bites his lip, faking "suitably chastened" very poorly.

"Oh, _fine_."

As John has spent a third of his life in the army, he's fairly good at self-restraint. He doesn't slap Sherlock. Instead, he undresses him with painstaking slowness, sliding Sherlock's coat over his shoulders, releasing each button on his shirt with care. Sherlock watches him silently with half-lidded eyes, like he's entertained by the way John refuses to take the bait. John's not even sure what he's refusing at this point, if this is just a feint within a feint, what Sherlock thinks he's playing at. He doesn't want Sherlock halfway, he doesn't want to punish him, he doesn't want everything in between them to be some elaborate orchestration on Sherlock's part. No, John just wants to fuck him through the mattress.

John sighs, grits his teeth, and unbuckles Sherlock's belt. Sherlock moans convincingly. It's a good thing he's never done that in a restaurant. "Stop that. I mean it."

"You don't actually want me to stop."

"I want _you_ to stop telling me what I want."

"Since you've been doing such a good job figuring that out so far–"

"Shut up," John says, and unzips Sherlock's pants. Sherlock arches up under him, and John puts his right hand against Sherlock's left hip and shoves him back down. He's dragging down Sherlock's boxers with his left: they catch on Sherlock's erection, but John tugs them free, tugs them down with Sherlock's pants from his hips to his feet. He leaves them tangled there when he climbs onto the sheets next to Sherlock, shoves his right leg between Sherlock's long, lanky ones, and pins him to the bed.

"You're still dressed," Sherlock objects, as if clothes are the biggest problem here, just before John clamps his left hand over Sherlock's mouth.

He turns Sherlock's head to the side and mouths his jaw, moving slowly up to the skin under his ear. Sherlock exhales sharply when John trails his tongue just beneath the lobe, and John can feel his hot breath against his palm. Sherlock's body is both intensely familiar and oddly new to him: they'd only been lovers a few scant days, before.

John's right hand skims across Sherlock's shoulder, drifts below to caress Sherlock's arm. When his fingers trace over the scarred skin between elbow and wrist, Sherlock trembles. John's still not sure what's real, what's an act, why Sherlock thinks if John gets angry now he'll just get over it. No. Gently, gently, he rakes his nails down Sherlock's side, tracing the line of his hip, then lower, before he drags them back up the inside of Sherlock's thigh. John can hear Sherlock's breath hitch, just slightly, and then again, when John's fingers drift up to Sherlock's nipple.

Then Sherlock licks his palm, and John can't help it, he grinds his hips against Sherlock's, moves his damp hand away from Sherlock's mouth to brace himself against the mattress. Sherlock inhales once, deeply, before John kisses him, roughly thrusts their mouths together. Where they'd pressed against John's hand, Sherlock's lips are warm and swollen. Sherlock slips his tongue into John's mouth and John gasps just a little before he fastens his mouth to Sherlock's more tightly. When John is kissing Sherlock like this, he feels like he's being drawn inside him, pulled in by an inexorable tide, and until the very moment of separation he cannot imagine an end to it.

Sherlock pulls away first. John gives him a moment before he sticks the index and middle fingers of his left hand into Sherlock's mouth, far enough that Sherlock coughs and sputters when John pulls them out just as quickly. John moves his wet fingers low, lower, until they're just touching the smooth skin of Sherlock's hole. He presses in.

"Shouldn't you…" says Sherlock.

"No," John tells him sweetly, and Sherlock is quiet for a few minutes while John fucks him with his fingers and sucks at the skin beneath his jaw. There'll be bruises there in the morning, John thinks. His own cock is agonizingly hard now, leaking and chafing painfully against his jeans, but he's proving a point. Sherlock keeps arching up under him, pressing them together, until John gives in and wraps his free hand around Sherlock's cock. It only takes a few strokes before Sherlock comes messily between them.

John presses his forehead against Sherlock's cheek while Sherlock's breathing slows. He slips his fingers free and wipes them distractedly against Sherlock's thigh.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asks after a minute.

"Not really, no."

The stellar blowjob that follows helps a lot.

They spend the next six weeks chasing dead leads through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and France. John's never sure how close they come to actually finding him.


	4. part 4

all my love and thanks to everyone who has contributed in some way to this story: angearia, automaticdoor, fuyukodachi, imaginarycircus (who did beta duty for this round), quinara, rdf (who did beta duty for this round as well), tiferet, and also my mom for her cheerleading.

.o.

MAY

In a nice concession to dramatic convention, John finds Moriarty leaning against the mantle when they return to Baker Street.

He has the skull in hand, and his eyes flicker up to meet John's when John crosses the threshold into the living room.

"You could shoot me now," Moriarty says, "but it wouldn't be very _sporting_."

"Yes, right," John says, just before he shoots him.

Right between the eyes, nice and clean. John can hear Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs, now, then the long pause just behind him. He thumbs the safety back on, but doesn't holster the gun. His ears are ringing. Small things draw his eye: a monograph on bees lying under their sofa, the fine leather detailing on one of Moriarty's leather shoes.

"We have a hostage in our kitchen." Sherlock sounds very far away.

"You should call Mycroft."

"It's Sebastian," Sherlock says. "There's a bomb."

"Call Mycroft," he says again. Then he goes and sits in the doorway, because that's what you're supposed to do, aren't you, when the earth quakes under you.

Time passes. John gives Mycroft's gun to someone and lets them sit him down at the kitchen table, pull the sliding door closed. They've already taken Sebastian somewhere. John answers their questions as best he can until Sherlock whirls back in and kicks them out.

"Go, go," he tells the woman in the neat black suit who's been in the kitchen for the last hour. She is reluctant to be shooed. "I've already done your job for you, I don't understand why you're _still here_."

"Doctor Watson," she says, shaking his hand, ignoring Sherlock. "We'll follow up with you sometime this week."

"Sure." He doesn't remember her name or what day of the week it is. His hearing's mostly back, though. "That's fine. Just fine."

.o.

He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, climbs into bed, because he's home again and this is what he does at home. He almost sets his alarm for the morning shift at the surgery before he remembers he doesn't work there anymore.

Sherlock comes in, still in his suit, pristine. His hands are soft, no smell of cordite, just the unscented soap in the bathroom. He's laid the back of one against John's forehead, like he's checking for a fever.

"Not sick," he says.

"I didn't think you were."

The past two months have been like a dream, or some excursion out of time, with no electric bills or late night trips to Tesco or calls from Harry (fuck, he has to-) or cases from Lestrade, and John's still not awake, despite the familiar sheets beneath him. He watches Sherlock undress, hanging up his suit in John's closet before discarding everything else on the floor. Sherlock puts on one of John's t-shirts and his own drawstring pajama pants, creased and rumpled like they've been lying on the floor this whole time.

John shifts over when Sherlock climbs in bed, rolls over and closes his eyes. Sherlock curls up behind him, tucks his cold nose behind John's ear. John shivers. Trembles. Sherlock puts an arm around him, tugs him close. The dissonance takes John by surprise. He feels like he's cracking open, like he can't hold the warmth of this moment and the sensation of the gun in his hand inside him.

"He was there," Sherlock says. "In Switzerland. When you found me."

There's a quiet that neither of them attempts to fill. Sherlock says nothing. John doesn't say, "You idiot." He inhales, exhales, over and over, keeps breathing as he moves from one moment to the next.

.o.

There's no inquest, no blood spatter, everything swept neatly under the rug. He can't decide whether or not he's relieved. Harry brings curry over the flat a few nights later and lays into him for disappearing for months on end with only a cryptic email for reassurance.

"You're not on your own, John," she points out. "You're all… off somewhere in your head when you have a problem. I'm glad you have _him_," she tilts her head toward the kitchen where Sherlock is conspicuously defrosting the refrigerator, "but next time you take in your head to hare off around the continent for weeks, I'd appreciate a little notice."

"Next time?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

Harry rolls her eyes. "Not fooling me. Inside of a fortnight you'll be texting me from a loo in Amsterdam, 'Hullo, promised I'd call before I left the country, sorry about that.'"

"You've a very active imagination. Amsterdam, really?"

"It's a gift," Harry says, folding her hands on her lap primly.

In the kitchen, Sherlock drops something and curses.

.o.

The surgery is swamped and Sarah is grateful enough to have him back on staff that she doesn't ask many questions.

"When can you start? Yesterday?" she asks, stepping into her office.

John stands up and relieves her of some of the folders that are threatening to escape her grip. "Tomorrow, if it's not too much trouble. It's really — you're sure you want me back?"

"John," Sarah says, setting the rest of the pile down on her desk. "You're taking all of my appointments for the next two days. I haven't had a day off since last Tuesday. Please take some charts and stop talking."

He does.

It's a relief to have his days neatly marked out before him. Sherlock's taken some case from Mycroft that requires more hacking than legwork, which he complains about at length while John orders in Chinese or contemplates how long he can reasonably go without doing laundry.

A week in, he finds a severed thumb in the newly cleaned fridge and in the ensuing row says, with unexpected heat, "I _know_ it's not over, he probably has half a dozen henchmen plotting how best to take over and kill us, very slowly, probably not in that order."

"Congratulations," Sherlock drawls, hands still cupped protectively over the offending Tupperware. "You've mastered inductive reasoning. Alert the press."

"I killed him," John says. Slow, deliberate, words measured. "I would just like a little bit of time. For my delusions. You know. To pretend we live in a world with no archenemies except for your brother and that Adler woman."

Sherlock pulls a face.

"In retrospect, she was rather charming," John adds. "Best nemesis ever."

"First class," Sherlock concedes.

"Very attractive."

"You'd know." Sherlock flaps a hand in a way that somehow manages to evoke both his flagrant homosexuality and John's appreciation of a fine pair of breasts.

"Shut up," John says, and then, "Come here. Wait, wash your hands, first."

.o.

He dozes off later and wakes up to find Sherlock watching him, face close, one leg slung over John's. "Do you think we need a bigger bed?" Sherlock asks.

John presses his forehead against Sherlock's and bumps their knees together. "No."

AUGUST

Harry's coming over for dinner, so John nips out to pick up some salad greens and a loaf of bread. This dazzling show of hospitality will probably not distract either Harry or her new girlfriend from the miserable state of the flat or the acid burns on the kitchen table, but he is ever hopeful.

After he comes out of the Tube, John doubles back and snags Sherlock by his collar. "If you're going to stalk me while I do the shopping, you know the rules."

Sherlock looks put out, like they don't do this every Tuesday. "What gave me away?"

.o.

.o.

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Thank you for reading!


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